


Uncooked Spaghetti Dinner

by killingg_eve



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Affection, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Love, POV Second Person, Safety, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29810730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killingg_eve/pseuds/killingg_eve
Summary: POV Second Person. You (Villanelle) feel depressed and are going through a difficult time. Eve takes care of you.--An immersive experience of tenderness, comfort, and love.--Possible cw for mental health, but that aspect does not go very deep.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 19
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melodramarrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodramarrr/gifts).



> Dedicated with love and warm wishes for Mar (Melodramarrr). 
> 
> \--  
> I wanted Villanelle to be struggling . . . it looks a lot like depression. I think she is reflecting on trauma, too, possibly.   
> The focus of this fic is Eve, though, and all of the ways that Eve cares for Villanelle.
> 
> Please leave comments and let me know what you all think. Was it comforting?  
> Sending love to you all. xx

You come home.

You unlock the door, kick off your shoes, and set the grocery bags on the counter. You wash your hands in cold water and unpack the bags.

Fresh basil. Parmesan powder in a disgusting little can, (the type that Eve likes, from America). Angel hair pasta. Oregano. The most plump, most red tomatoes you could find on a Friday.

Friday, the busiest day. Even gathering the ingredients in your basket was hard. Even going through the checkout and resisting the urge to go back to your roots—to strangle a tourist who pushed ahead of you in the line—was hard. Maybe he did it because you’re a woman, maybe he did it because you’re a blonde woman, and maybe he did it because he assumed you’re a proper, British, white, blonde woman.

Regardless, he did. You’re just proud that you made it. You _didn’t_ strangle him; you didn’t alert The Twelve to your location. You didn’t put a target on Eve’s back.

Eve.

Oh, _Eve_. Eve will be home, soon, and you will have cooked her an exquisite spaghetti dinner. Maybe Eve will thank you, calling your cooking “delicious”. Maybe Eve will ask if you remember the first time you promised her pasta. Maybe you will nod, reach behind her back, and gently trace the scar your weapon left on her, while your other hand cradles her cheek as you offer slow, apologetic kisses.

You realize that you’ve been lost. You’ve been staring at the tile of the backsplash in your kitchen, all while you’ve been thinking about Sundays and strangling and Eve.

You pull yourself back to reality.

You fill a big pot with water. You unpackage the basil. You wash all eight of the tomatoes in warm water. You make sure each of them gets a dab of soap because Eve is picky like this; Eve likes her produce to be clean, always.

You’re still thinking about Eve when you take the biggest kitchen knife and cut a tomato in half, and you’re only pulled out of your thoughts, again, when it sprays you. The tomato’s juice and seeds leave your thumb and index finger feeling sticky, and the acidity stings with a gentle burn.

Suddenly, the tomato reminds you of home, and the sting of its juice reminds you of Mama.

And then, you’re not really _here_ , at all. You’re long gone. You’re somewhere that you know you’ve travelled to, but you don’t know the route there, nor do you know the route back.

You rinse your thumb under the faucet while you consider your whereabouts.

Somehow, between sighs outward and choking sobs inward, you decide that you need a break. Maybe even a nap.

Before you know it, you’re lying on the crisp, white sheets of the bed. The duvet is pulled up to your chin. Your fists are holding the fabric tight as you try to pull it closer to you, somehow. And you realize that you can’t get warm, no matter what you do.

You feel exhausted, you feel lost. You feel like a monster, you feel like a prisoner. You’re everything and everywhere, all at once. It’s tiring. It’s draining to exist like this. You’re tired of winding up in this position and not knowing how to get out. You wish that you didn’t feel like this bed is the only place that you can manage to be.

You’re just so tired.

You used to run. You used to climb. You used to slice people open with whatever tools you had available. You did pull-ups in your Paris flat.

Now, you’re not sure how you used to do all of those things. How did you have the energy? What kept you going? How did you keep yourself from lying down on the Liliana Rizzari comforter until sunset, and then longer? Why didn’t you have the problem that you have, now, where you wake up hours later, only to discover that you don’t remember when or why you fell asleep?

There are so many things you can’t account for. The math doesn’t make sense; this isn’t like the languages you studied or the subjects you excelled in. This is fully new and treacherous.

Now, all you have is your tears staining your cheeks and your honey hair. Your duvet, which is failing to keep the chill off of your back. You have your empty stomach and your migraine.

And you have Eve.

You have Eve for as long as she is willing to deal with you being like this.

**

The front door closes with a slight, unintentional slam.

You hear Eve take her shoes off, and then she pads across the wooden floor with her socks on.

She must make it to the kitchen . . . she must see the pot full of lukewarm water and the tomato that is cut open.

Uncooked spaghetti dinner.

And then you hear her calling . . . for _someone_.

“Villanelle?” Eve calls.

You close your eyes and hold your breath. _Villanelle is dead_ , you think. The corners of your eyes sting with fresh tears and an onslaught of new thoughts.

“Oksana?” Eve calls. She sounds close-by.

_That_ name makes you wince, makes you choke on a sob.

“V?” Eve calls.

Her voice is crystal clear, and she speaks quieter. The way she sounds when she is so close to you makes your chest soft. Maybe it’s because your eyes are closed—you hear her tonality perfectly, and it’s like hearing an angel.

You hum in response because she has finally called you a name that you can respond to. She’s the only one who calls you “V”. In your mind, “V” and “Ville” are identities who exist with and for Eve—Eve only.

You brace yourself as you hear her walking towards you. Her work trousers make a shuffling sound as she crosses the room.

You don’t know what to say . . . you don’t know how to start. You don’t know if she is mad about dinner, if she’s hungry and tired and you just _ruined_ everything by climbing into bed instead of honoring your commitments. You don’t know if she will give up on you, if—

“Hi, Eve,” you say, turning towards her. You paint your face into a smile and peak your head out of the covers.

Eve’s expression descends into worry, upon seeing your face. Her brow furrows and her mouth falls open. Maybe before now, she believed you were simply sleeping.

It only makes you feel worse. _You_ , you are supposed to be good at pretending. You used to put on outfits and wigs and accents. They shielded you from having to be Oksana, from having to be Villanelle. And now you can’t even depend on yourself to play pretend.

You must look psychotic, lying there with ugly tears streaming down your face, with a smile that probably appears unconvincing and . . . maybe scary.

“Sweetheart,” Eve whispers to you, then. It’s sympathetic and feathery light. She is closer. The back of her hand grazes over your cheek.

It’s unexpected; she doesn’t seem angry with you.

You just stare at her, then. Your mouth is open as though questions beg to fall from it. _Are you disappointed? Are you angry?_ Instead, your eyes well up with tears and you are frozen, and you watch her through your blurry vision.

You watch her, and she walks around to the other side of the bed. She climbs into bed, paying no mind to her work clothes—not even her blazer. She doesn’t climb under the duvet, and she doesn’t try to pull the duvet away from your hands. She pulls you closer—sheets and duvet and all. She hugs you to herself. To her chest, to her shoulder.

The way her arms circle around you and your bundle of blankets makes you warmer, and you finally stop feeling chills running down your back. It’s _her_. It’s her warmth. She is healing; she is home.

“I’m sorry about dinner,” you rush out. Your chest feels tight with worry as you speak into the soft warmth of Eve’s shoulder.

“Shhh,” she replies. “It’s okay. Is it bad, today?”

You know what she means. The question serves as a reminder that you can’t hide this haunting pain from her, nor from your own self.

“Yeah,” you choke. And then tears start to cascade, again. You sniffle into her shoulder and then think about how disgusting it is to do so. You apologize through tears and snot and grief, and then you say, again, “I’m sorry about dinner.” You aren’t prepared for the way your voice wavers. The sentence is nearly incoherent. You feel like a child having a tantrum.

“It’s okay,” she whispers by your ear. “I’ll put everything away,” she says louder and clearer, “and you can make it some other time.”

You say, “Thank you,” but your crying doesn’t soften. The words come out as a garble.

“I’m right here, baby.” Eve tells you this softly. For the third time, she says, “It’s okay,” and this time, it’s not a response to an apology. It is only an admission of soothing and calming and love.

You feel her fingers stroking through your hair. Her other hand holds the back of your head.

She rewards you as your tears become lesser, and as your sniffling and struggling becomes less and less. She says, “You’re okay, you’re okay.” Her hands feel so warm.

When you’ve calmed down, when your eyes are closing as you rest on her shoulder, she speaks again. It keeps you awake. It keeps you with her.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Eve tells you. “I’ll run you a bath, we’ll order dinner, and we’ll go to bed.” When she doesn’t hear anything back from you, she asks, “Does that sound alright?”

You surrender to her. You probably wouldn’t have taken a bath on your own, if you were alone. The effort of running the water and undressing seems like more than you can handle. But you’re not alone; you’re with Eve. And recently, you’ve discovered that the best way to handle all of this is to surrender to her. Fully. You go where she goes; you do what she asks of you.

You might not care where your body is, whether it’s in bed or in a bathtub, or somewhere else. But Eve cares. Eve wants you in the bath. So, you’ll let her give you one.

“Yes, please,” you say.

You feel guilty. Running a bath and ordering food sound like a lot of work, to you, and now she is going to have to do put the effort in.

You are about to question how she manages it all, but then Eve lets go of you and climbs out of bed, and you quickly follow suit.


	2. Chapter 2

You watch her as she checks the temperature of the bath and adds an elixir of products. Bubbles, Epsom salt.

She shuts off the water when the tub is full, and then she looks up at you, noticing that you’re still fully clothed.

“Come on,” she says, quietly, as she stands. She kisses your cheek and cradles your face with her hand, which is warm and wet with bath suds. Then, she starts undoing the buttons of your blouse, from the top down.

You feel guilty for not helping, so you unbutton your trousers.

She takes your blouse and bra off, laying them over the side of the hamper. She waits for you to do the rest—which you do—and then she offers her hand to you in a way that is both sincere and playful.

You step into the bath while holding her hand. Neither of you are convinced that you would fall, otherwise, but Eve is being sweet and warm and smiley about this. Your face pulls itself into a small smile, in turn.

You are fully seated in the bath, and it’s so warm. You sit with your legs crossed. You put your hands under your knees so that part of your arms are warm—you just want to spread the warmth everywhere.

_This is the best_ , you think. The water is the perfect temperature; it’s so warm that it borders on hot, and you love this. You need this. This is exactly what you were searching for, whenever you first climbed into bed, in search of a warm feeling. You think this bath is doing something for your soul, your spirit.

“So pretty,” Eve whispers, pulling you from your trance.

You look up at her, and the way her eyes flicker to your mouth makes you believe that she is talking about your smile.

You sigh on accident, and twist yourself towards her. You rest your hand on the side of the tub.

“I don’t feel pretty, anymore,” you say, bluntly.

You immediately feel guilty for saying something so negative, but the deed is already done, so you just wait.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Eve says. She puts her hand over yours and squeezes. Her brown eyes are warm, like this bath. “Every part of you. I wish you could see it.”

Her attention is sidetracked by your sticky, tear-stained pieces of hair, which frame your face.

Without saying anything more, she picks up a section. She focuses on it. She cups some water in her hand and runs the water over the hair. Suddenly, she’s working away. She takes a tiny bit of shampoo and massages it into the strands, then lathers it carefully and rinses it with more bath water.

She does this in two more, small areas of your hair.

You sit patiently while she does it, just looking at her face and its focused concentration. Sometimes you look down at your knees and think. You’re idle while she works.

When she is finished, you have three small sections of hair that are soaking wet, while the mass majority is dry and untouched.

“Why didn’t you tell me to soak my hair?” you ask her, gesturing behind you, where you could have just leaned back. You probably should have asked this question a few minutes ago, but you were distracted. You were complying to Eve and to however Eve wants to take care of you. You only ask, now, because you want things to be as easy as possible for Eve.

“No, no, this is perfect,” Eve says. She runs her thumb over a wet section of hair and admires her handiwork. She stammers as she turns her thoughts into words. “Because if you, um—I want you to be warm, when you get out of the bath.”

You nod.

“I don’t want you to be cold from wet hair. I want the rest to stay dry, so you’ll be warm.”

“Oh, . . . thank you,” you breathe. You feel small and taken care of. You’re speechless; she considered your warmth, your comfort, your happiness. Somehow, she came to a conclusion about what would make you feel the best for the longest amount of time. And you think that she is right about this.

Her lovingness leaves you without other thoughts. It’s like there is nothing else, just her. Just Eve.

“Do you want to sit in here, for a while?” she asks you.

You notice that her eyes flicker towards the door, and her muscles twitch as though she is going to stand. You realize that she means she wants to leave you alone, in here. Maybe she believes you would enjoy the time alone.

You wouldn’t—you wouldn’t enjoy that at _all_.

You grab her wrist without thinking. Your hand clenches around it in a way that is firm, yet affectionate.

“Will you come in here with me?” you ask. You don’t want her to leave.

“I don’t—” she responds, “I mean, I—”

You gather that she doesn’t want to take a bath. She only intended to give _you_ a bath. But you’ve taken baths together many times, and suddenly emotions overwhelm you and the sadness rears its ugly head, and before you think, you speak—

“Please,” you beg. You’re short of breath. “ _Please_ , I need you.”

As soon as the words leave your lips, you realize it’s true. It’s a true _need_.

She hesitates.

“ _I need you_ ,” you repeat. “Please?”

She slowly rises to her feet and turns toward the mirror, pulling her long-sleeve shirt up, over her head.

You sigh in relief and bring your knees to your chest. You hug them while you wait for her.

When she’s ready, you scoot forward so that she has a place to sit down. Normally, your roles might be reversed—you might take her hand and help her in, just as she did for you, earlier. You’re usually chivalrous, like that. But you c-can’t—you _can’t_. So, you just wait.

“Okay,” she says, and her arms are reaching around the sides of your stomach.

You shift yourself back.

She hugs around the middle of you, pulling you close to her body.

You’re lying against her chest. Her chin rests on the top of your head.

She’s being affectionate. She holds you close and secure. The way her arms are positioned, it’s like she’s trying to protect you from something. It’s both protective and possessive, you think. And it’s just warm— _warmer_. It’s exactly what you were asking her for; it’s exactly what you needed.

“Thank you, this is perfect.” You tell her this, trying to put your thoughts into words. You hug her arms, which are hugging you, and you close your eyes and _feel_. Just feel.

“I love you, baby,” she says, quietly and equally needy. She attempts to pull you closer.

She succeeds, pressing your body tightly to hers.

“I love you, Eve.”

This is the only place you want to be. You wish that you didn’t have to exist in any place, other than this.

You keep your eyes closed and rest with Eve. And time stands still, until Eve decides for the both of you that it’s time to get out of the bath.

She helps you out of the bath with gentle words (“Come on, Sweetie”), and then she dries your body off, quickly. She immediately dresses you in your robe (the fluffy, white one that reaches the floor) because it’s exactly as she told you—she doesn’t want you to be cold. She wants you to stay warm.

All the while, Eve is cold. Her body glistens with droplets of bathwater, and you see goosebumps on her arms while she dresses you in your robe.

Eve doesn’t pay attention to the way she shivers, and she pulls her own robe on, hurriedly, after dressing you, without even towel-drying herself, first.

She leaves the bathroom and locates her phone. She orders Chinese food to be delivered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst ahead. 🥺🥺🥺

When Eve fills your plate with steamed rice and sesame chicken and lo mein, you feel overwhelmed.

You aren’t sure how to tell her it’s too much. You aren’t sure what happened; you were hungry while grocery shopping, but whenever . . .

—Oh, you remember, it was the tomato. After you cut into the tomato—

. . . You no longer felt hungry. And you still don’t feel hungry, now.

While Eve starts eating, you look at your plate. You look at the colorful array of food as though you’re solving a math problem. That calculation, of course, is how you will get the food off of the plate and into your body. Right now, it doesn’t seem possible. If you had been expected to solve this problem in school, you realize you would have needed to raise your hand.

You pick up your fork and stall, yet again, and that’s when Eve’s attention is drawn to you.

“What’s wrong?” she asks you.

“I . . .” you hesitate. You’re worried she won’t understand. Even worse, she fed you this meal, and you worry you are being rude by refusing her—especially after what happened with the spaghetti. You set your fork down on the table and bow your head, a little bit. You do not want to look into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Eve. I think I just need to sleep. Thank you for dinner.”

Eve stops chewing when you share this, but after a moment, she continues and swallows.

“Can you do something for me?” Eve asks.

“Please don’t be upset,” you say, still without making eye contact.

She covers your hand with hers, and that gets your attention and eye contact.

“I only want you to eat a little bit,” she tells you, “because otherwise you may not sleep through the night. You might wake up hungry.”

You nod. You feel her hand on yours.

“I want you to sleep well,” she tells you. Then, she pulls her hand back.

You nod, again, and tears form in your eyes because it’s so tempting to argue or run away. Part of your brain wants to do those things, but the other part is trained to listen to Eve . . . to put Eve first. To trust Eve with your health—your life.

You scoop up a tiny piece of sesame chicken and eat it slowly. It’s delicious and salty and rich. You don’t mind it; you just don’t want a _lot_ of it.

“Eat some rice,” Eve requests.

You nod and have half a bite of rice. You realize this fits into what she was saying; she wants you to be full enough to sleep through the night.

You continue to eat rice. The process is slow, but you continue, carefully and thoughtfully. And you glance at Eve as she goes back to eating.

After a few small bites, you start to think aloud.

“I’m sorry that this is what you ended up with,” you tell Eve.

She stalls again and looks at you.

In turn, you punctuate your words with a sarcastic breath of laughter and a sympathetic shake of your head.

“You fell for an assassin . . . who was _exciting_ ,” you pause, “ _fearless_ ,” you whisper, “. . . and well-dressed,” you chuckle. “Now, you’re stuck with me. You’re stuck with _this_ person,” you say with disgust. You gesture with your hand over your torso, as you speak. “Someone who can’t cook, who can’t _eat_ ,” you say, looking down at your food, “who can’t even get the _fuck_ up out of bed!” You snarl with aggression towards yourself. You nod. You look at Eve with sympathy and shake your head because she’s _perfect_ , she’s everything. She’s wonderful. And you know that she deserves better—the best. Eve already deserved better than the former version of you—the version that she couldn’t stop chasing. But now, with you being an empty shell of Villanelle (or Oksana, or _whoever_ ), it seems unjust to share a home and meals and a bed with Eve. You feel like you have stolen something. It is not right; it is not _fair_ to Eve. Tears stream down your face as you look at Eve and feel sorry for everything she has lost. For her dashed dreams.

When Eve’s eyes well up with tears, you think she agrees. She brings her hand to her mouth and looks at you. Her eyes become glossy.

You’re about to say, ‘I know.’ You’re about to apologize for everything and set her free. You could tell her that you are willing to leave. You figure that you could pack up a bag of all of the clothes you wear, nowadays (which, sadly, is just loungewear and denim), and you could go to someplace tropical. Someplace warm, where you don’t need Eve’s bed and Eve’s duvet. You could rot by your lonesome. And Eve could be happy; Eve could find a pretty and alluring young woman. The type that Eve wanted and _tried_ to find in you. Eve could be taken care of (properly) by her.

You open your mouth with the intention of cutting Eve loose and revealing your plan.

But then, Eve is on her feet, coming towards you. Then, Eve is on her knees, below you.

She takes both of your hands and holds them in your own lap.

“Don’t say any more of this,” Eve begs. She cries tears of desperation. “I can’t handle it—I can’t handle any more of these words,” she cries, punctuated with a whispered, “please.”

You want to apologize, but Eve asked you not to speak. You know that all you can do is listen.

Eve softens by taking a deep, shaky breath. Then, she whispers to you. “You’re still the eighth wonder of the world, to me.” Tears continue to streak down her beautiful, soft cheeks. She looks at you. She is searching every part of your face. “I don’t care if you don’t have the energy to cook. I don’t care if you don’t wear designer clothes.” She shakes her head at you. “It’s okay if things are difficult for you, right now. It doesn’t upset me,” she says, “it doesn’t bother me. Because I _know_ that you’ll feel better, in time.”

She squeezes your hands, but you don’t look down; you’re lost to her eyes. You’re swimming in her warm, wonderful, brown eyes.

“It’s just a waiting game,” Eve continues. “We could find you a therapist, or we could go outside more, or we could move to a different city. We just need to find the right combination of things that makes you feel better.”

You finally look at her hands, which keep smoothing over yours in the most loving way.

“I’m willing to try anything. I’ll go anywhere. I’ll stay right by your side.” Eve leans into you. “All I care about is _you_. _You_ —the person inside of you. The one who doesn’t change, who can’t be altered. The _essence_ of you.”

You think that you know what Eve is talking about, even though you don’t have a name for it.

“I don’t care about your hair, your clothes, your mood . . . the way you change, over time.” Eve huffs out a breath. “You could evolve in so many different ways, for better or worse, but I’m here for _you_. The person inside.” She repeats herself and seems to be afraid that her message isn’t getting through to you. She exhales again and looks off to the side, then back up at your eyes. “How do I get it through to you that I’m not going to lose interest or leave?” she asks.

Tears sting in your eyes, and you want to apologize for the lack of understanding she is referring to. You shake your head and your lips part because you want to speak.

“No—it’s—how do I make sure you know that you’re _safe_?” Eve clarifies. And then, “Listen to me, please,” she begs. “ _Please_ ,” she repeats in a whisper. She adjusts her grip on both of your hands and tells you, “I will never abandon you. You’re _mine_. You’re _my_ girl. You’re my _baby_.”

You feel like you can’t breathe while you listen to Eve. You hope you will remember these words forever. You wish you could engrain this in your mind, somehow.

“I love you,” Eve says. “I love every part of you.”

One of her hands lets go of yours and travels up to your arm, which Eve caresses. In turn, you put your free hand over Eve’s (over the hand that’s still holding yours). You pet the back of her hand with your thumb.

You realize you should speak—you _need_ to speak. And so, you say, “I love you,” and your voice ends up sounding shaky and small.

“Oksana,” Eve says, quietly.

(There is less pain.)

“Villanelle,” Eve says.

(There is _no_ pain.)

“What do you need from me?” Eve asks. “H-How do I . . .” she pauses to think. “What can I do that could possibly help?”

You look over Eve’s shoulder, into the distance. You think. You sniffle while you think, and you’re suddenly unsure if you’ve been crying this entire time, or if you just started to.

You turn your gaze back towards Eve and make your request.

“Hold me?” You whisper the words, and your lip quivers, and your face twists with pain. “ _Eve_ ,” you croak. She is your lifeblood.

“Oh,” she says, with a click of her tongue. “Baby,” she says. She sounds sympathetic, protective.

Somewhere in the process, your hand goes cold and feels fuzzy because she has let go of it. And your vision is blurry with tears, so you can’t see. But almost instantly, you can tell that Eve is on her feet, and she’s pulling you close. She pulls on the back of your head and one of your shoulders.

You’re resting against Eve’s chest. Eve soothes you and presses you close to her. She kisses the top of your head. And she soothes you with whispers.

“ _Shhh_ , it’s okay,” Eve tells you. “Don’t be sorry, don’t be upset,” she says. “I would choose you over and over, again, baby.”

You listen to her words, her heartbeat. You press your forehead to her chest. It’s warm, and she is loving, and every whispered word makes you feel safe; treasured.


	4. Chapter 4

You eat more of your rice. Somehow, you even manage to eat two pieces of bell peppers and two, small pieces of sesame chicken.

When you and Eve have both finished eating, you pick up your plate and stand up.

But she takes it from you, right away.

“I’ll put everything away. Do you want to brush your teeth and meet me in bed?”

You nod and smile. You realize that Eve knows your nighttime habits, and how you could never go to sleep without brushing your teeth. Eve is looking out for you, again.

**

When you’ve finished brushing your teeth, you lie down on your side of the bed. You lie on your left side, facing the door. You’re waiting for Eve, just as she asked. Your mind feels calm, and you do not have any thoughts that lead you to dark places. You just have Eve—and all of those wonderful things that Eve said to you.

Eve finally comes in, and she says, “Oh, you didn’t change?”

You’re in your robe, still. You hoped she wouldn’t notice. You are so tired, now, that you don’t have the energy to change. In fact, you had already planned to change your clothes, first thing in the morning.

You hum in protest. “ _Hmmm_ ,” you whine. You close your eyes as if to signify, ‘Please, don’t make me!’

Eve walks across the room. She is behind you, now, since you’re facing the door. You assume she is going to brush her teeth and change her clothes. She will probably put her hair up, too, to keep her curls looking nice.

You close your eyes. You’re just resting them. You’re waiting for Eve.

You feel and hear something being placed at the end of the bed, near your feet.

You open your eyes and look. There are pajamas. _Your_ silk, matching pajamas. And Eve, of course.

“Come on, honey,” Eve says, gently. She puts her hand on your ankle while she watches you contemplate.

Your face pulls itself into a soft smile, because how could you possibly say no? You sit yourself up, and then you stand.

She unties your robe and slips it off of your shoulders. She places it on the bed. Then, she picks up underwear and pajama bottoms. “You do these,” she requests.

You do. You imagine that it’s probably easier and faster, this way.

Then, Eve takes the matching pajama top and puts it around your arms.

You slide each arm in.

Eve buttons the shirt from the top, down. When she reaches the end, she tugs on the bottom of the shirt so that it lays over you nicely. Then, she smooths her hands over the collar and admires her handiwork. She stands on her tip-toes and kisses your forehead.

It makes you want to blush, all over again. It reminds you of the bath, when she took your hand and helped you in.

_She’s always soft towards me_ , you realize. And thank god. You need a safe place to rest, don’t you? You need to lay your head on her chest, each night—but especially after making it through the difficult days. You recall that you’ve never had safety like this, before. You’ve never known affection. Love. In a sense, Eve is your hero—

“You’re my hero,” you blurt out, before you’ve processed what you’re saying.

Eve searches your eyes and tilts her head, the slightest bit. She’s listening to you.

You cup her face with both of your hands.

“You saved me,” you say. “You already did. Because you chased me and you chose me. And I think you—I think you’re—” You sigh. “I think you are saving me, _again_. I think you are saving me from whatever this is, that is happening to me.” You press your forehead to hers and exhale, and you wrap your arms around her neck. “Thank you,” you say, quietly . . . close to her mouth.

Her arms circle around your back.

She kisses you.

You let her.

You kiss her back.

**

You go to bed, together.

You fall asleep while clinging to her.

She falls asleep while letting you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.   
> 💙💙💙
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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